"Shh, not so loud," hisses Charlotte. "Everyone else in this cafeteria works for them, remember?"
"Sorry," whispers Chen. "I took apart one of Verta’s internal drug release systems, and the mounting and implantation system is just a combination of hydrophobic adhesives and border sutures..."
Marcus interrupts with a groan and then pushes back in his chair to leave. He’s surprisingly squeamish around stitches for someone who used to be a surgeon.
"Shit, so now what?" I ask. "How do we make it work without sutures? We can’t just glue it in place and hope for the best."
Charlotte laughs and the table wobbles as she leans in closer.
"Easy. The use of stitching is clearly prior art, so you just differentiate your process from the way they implemented it," she explains. "All they can do is claim the combination of pattern, material and usage. You just change the pattern and material and you’re safe. If they try anything, leave the patent defense to me. I could smack the judge with a cat and still win that case."
"Charlotte," I gush in exaggerated gratitude, "how would I ever steal inventions without you?"
"Anything for you, Terrence," she answers with a laugh—a mirthless, practiced and professional laugh—and the table shifts again as she stands up.
"If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to speak to my next client," she says. "Well, my law partner's next client, to be precise... this one's a civil suit in the making. I'll be right back."
"Oh? Who is it?"
"A Miss Irene Hartley from the sandwich counter, who I just watched get fired after retaliating against her manager’s sexual harassment," Charlotte answers with an air of delight so pronounced that I can actually feel it. She always sounds so smug and when she’s found her next goldmine.
"You mean the woman who was making sandwiches just now?"
"Yes. Now if you’ll—"
Anger burns inside me at the idea of someone harassing her, and it catches me by surprise with its intensity. The idea that anyone could possibly want to hurt her infuriates me for some reason, but I quickly quench the fire and get my temper back under control. Verta isn't my company and I'm in no position to start anything. It's a bad idea to pick fights you can't finish, and it's really hard to finish a fight when you're blind.
"Wait!" I call to Charlotte as the click of her heels announces her departure. "Do me a favor while you’re up there."
"Okay, but make it quick. Security’s escorting her out right this second," she snaps. Jesus, she’s practically champing at the bit to sue someone.
"Give her Marcus’ card," I say, retrieving one from my wallet and stubbing my pinky finger on someone’s lunch tray as I slide the card across the table. "Tell her to give us a call if she’s interested in a job."
"Seriously? Why on earth would you want to hire some trash like her?" asks Charlotte incredulously.
"So she's trash when I'm interested in hiring her, but not when you can use her to make money, huh?" I fire back. I hate when people act as if they're superior to someone just because they're wealthier. It's like I'm surrounded by my horrible family all over again.
"Oh whatever. I don't have time to deal with this—have it your way," she groans, a hint of bitterness seeping through into her tone. "Give me that card."
Maybe Marcus is right about the whole younger assistant thing. M
aybe this is a sign... or maybe I’m a total idiot and I’ll regret this in a week.
Either way, it’s too late now. I hope he’s right.
wi
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Chapter VII
Isaac and I are sixteen...
The stampede for food after the fourth period bell ends the same way it does every day: with me waiting impatiently behind two hundred other students just to get to the cafeteria door. I stand silently in line, shifting my weight from foot to foot as the swarm of students inches down the hall, through the cafeteria doors and then finally into the kitchen. My stomach growls at me more insistently with each passing minute, reminding me yet again that this will be my first meal since lunchtime yesterday. Mom says she just keeps forgetting to buy groceries, but what she really means, of course, is that the grocery money went to her dealer again. I can't even remember the last time I saw her eat anything, and it's starting to show.
Woodbridge Academy rents out most of its cafeteria to local restaurants and set up booths in the kitchen. The burger place from down the street is offering all its usual combos for ten percent off, as is the Mexican chain with its pathetic excuse for burritos. Today, though, everyone's making a mad dash for the special from the pizzeria—two slices and a soda for five bucks.
Students dart back and forth from stand to stand as they try to decide what they're going to eat today, and I quickly pick out Sarah in the crowd. It’s become second nature for me to identify her wherever I go just to make sure I can avoid her. She’s doing her usual routine of pretending to waffle over whether to eat a salad or splurge on pizza. She'll probably get both again—she always does. By the time she decides and waits in line, though, her twenty-minute lunch break will be almost over. Ah, the luxury of choice.
I don't have her problem—nobody's ever in line for the stand I order from.
I push through the milling throng of students, squeeze between the tacos and the mall-style Chinese food, and head straight to the tiny lunch counter nestled in the back near the sinks.
The bored-looking lunch-lady slumps behind a point of sale system that probably costs more than a year supply of the bland, unappetizing food it's about to ring up.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Harris," I greet the rotund woman behind the counter as I hand her my lunch card. She dips her hair-netted beehive respectfully in reply, punches my card and then slaps a plate of gray, runny stroganoff onto my plate alongside a poppy seed muffin left over from breakfast. She goes back to what looks to be a very lonely game of tic-tac-toe scribbled on a napkin next to the register.
This is the lunch counter for students who can't afford the other stands—my own personal lunch counter. I'm the only Fdivll
"Thank you, Mrs. Harris."
She bobs her enormous hair again as I duck back into the jostling crowd, jealously guarding my lunch as I fight my way toward the tables. It’s almost pathetic how much my body wants me to eat this crap. It's as if my stomach's forgotten what real food tastes like and thinks this stuff will actually be delicious.
A girl I don't even know sticks her foot out in front of me, but I'm way ahead of her. I cut to the left, dodge her attempt to trip me and make my way safely out of the crowd. Woodbridge isn't so much a school as an obstacle course to me. Every student is a potential hazard, someone looking for the opportunity to humiliate me. Even the ones who don't bother me... well, I can't trust them anymore. I never know who hates me and who is just indifferent to my presence here. I hate feeling as if I always have to be on guard, always ready for the next person to try to drive me out of their precious school. I knew it'd be like this if I went to the high school downtown, but out here? No way.
At least I’m adapting. Sort of.
"Now where to sit today..." I mutter to myself, scanning the cafeteria as I wander along the rows of tables. I don't know why I'm even bothering to look; I always end up sitting in the same place anyway. You always expect the popular clique to look down on you, but even the usual high school outcasts want nothing to do with me here. I'm in a class of my own at the very bottom of the food chain.
"Don't even think about sitting here, Nina," calls out a blond, pig-tailed girl from my Algebra class, her voice high and irritatingly nasal-sounding as she drops her backpack on the empty seat next to her. "We don't want you at our table."
The girls sitting at her table snicker, but I just roll my eyes and keep on walking. They're the last people on earth I'd want to sit with.
"Had no intention, Katie," I tell her as I pass. "I saw you sitting there yesterday and I wouldn't want to catch whatever diseases you left on th
e seat."
Katie's face turns bright red in embarrassment and fury as the table erupts in laughter. Good—let her have a taste of her own medicine for once. I’ll probably pay for it later, but it feels awesome to have the upper hand for now.
The next five tables are full, the sixth has a seat reserved for Sarah and the seventh spreads out to cover every seat when they see me coming. I knew this was coming but it still disappoints me all the same. A part of me still desperately wants to connect with someone here, even if it's never going to happen. Just like every day, I'll be sitting alone at the table in the corner.
...the table at which, for the first this year, someone else is currently sitting.
Isaac looks up and smiles at me, and I suddenly feel cold. I haven't talked to him since he helped me clean up in the hallway after Sarah dumped garbage on my head.
I’m briefly annoyed at his intrusion. As dumb as it sounds, the empty table in the corner is all I have. It's my place—my own little spot in a sea of unwelcoming students—and he's invading it. I'm not sure I trust him, either. One of these days, he's going to be just like the others—he's going to pull some terrible, cruel prank on me, and I can't even imagine what it'll be. Will he put something disgusting in my already unbelievably foul lunch? Maybe he'll just shove me around like some of the other guys do. That seems most likely.
Jesus, why am I even thinking like that? I chastise myself. Isaac's never been anything but nice to me, and it's completely unfair of me to treat him like this. I cautiously sit down across from him, casting him a wary eye all the same.
"Nina, right?" he asks, smiling pleasantly at me. I nod.
"What was your name again? Was it Isaac?" I ask.
I already know his name but I feel like I have to say something. He nods in reply and gives me a smile so warm and inviting that my brain starts to do strange things to me. My hands don't seem to know where they belong anymore and I force myself to look away as my face flushes unexpectedly.
It feels strange talking to him. I should be ignoring him—treating him with disdain, the way everyone else treats me—but something about him almost compels me to like him. I don't want to have anything to do with the other students, but with Isaac... I just can't talk to him. It's as if my tongue just stops working when he's around. Why do I get this way around him?
"So," he starts again. "How's everything?"
My tongue still won't move, so instead I shrug and shove a forkful of stroganoff into my mouth. The noodles are so rubbery that I can barely chew them, but I'm almost thankful for the terrible food right now. It'll buy me enough time to figure out what to say.
"Have Sarah and her lap-dog of a boyfriend lightened up on you yet?" he asks, unfazed by my silence. He’s trying his best to be personable, but it's not exactly a fun subject for me.
"Not unless pushing my face into the water fountain counts as backing off," I finally answer, shaking my head.
Isaac frowns but doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches into his brown paper bag and pulls out his lunch—a bologna sandwich and a bag of cashews. I haven't had bologna in God only knows how long, but right now, it looks so appetizing compared to my own lunch that it might as well be prime rib.
Isaac catches me looking at his food, shrugs awkwardly and mumbles, "It’s not real meat, but I like it."
My face turns red in panicked embarrassment as I realize I'm staring at his sandwich. I wasn't judging his food—I just... oh, I don't even know what I was doing. When you spend all your time either sitting alone or cowering before bullies, you sometimes forget how to be a normal person.
"Bologna isn’t real meat?" I blurt out, trying my best to come up with a good recovery. "My grandfather used to tell me stories of the majestic herds of bologna beasts thundering across the plains of Montana."
Great. Now I sound like a lunatic, too.
Isaac almost chokes on his sandwich and covers his mouth as he laughs, and I feel the tension in my shoulders relax a hair. It somehow makes me feel... almost proud that I made him laugh, as if it's some sort of accomplishment or something.
"I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Nina," he tells me once he can finally breathe again. "Everything you know about bologna is a lie."
Just as I’m about to continue our charade, a boy in a yellow polo shirt and khaki shorts stands up at the next table and shouts over to Isaac, interrupting me. "Hey, bro! We saved you a seat over here!"
Isaac ignores him, pulls out a bag of chocolate chip cookies and tosses one onto my tray.
iv> "So anyway," he says, "we were just discussing the bologna beast and how—"
"Dude, if you feed a stray it’s gonna keep coming back for more," interrupts the asshole at the next table, and his band of likeminded idiots erupt into laughter and start coming up with even more delightful comments about me.
I pretend I can't hear them, but Isaac's jaw tightens and his green eyes grow dark and fierce as he listens to their slurs. He looks so angry that for a second, I'm afraid that he's going to start a scene right here in the cafeteria. If there's one thing I don't want, it's to be center of attention. All that does is get me into trouble.
I distract Isaac by handing him back his cookie, but he flicks it back to me with his fingers as if he's playing a game of air hockey. I try to push it back to his side of the table, but he shakes his head and presses it firmly down onto my tray.
"Come on – you can't just eat that little scoop of... whatever that shit is."
I lift the fork to my mouth and pretend to enjoy it. If I pretend for long enough that the stroganoff's awesome, eventually I'll like it. Normal people enjoy their food.
That's because normal people get to eat real food, though. The normal students have salads and sandwiches for lunch, and later tonight, they'll have amazing dinners like what I used to have when I was little—plates with bread rolls, gravy and potatoes, maybe even turkey. I'm the only girl in this entire school who has to decide between eating rubbery stroganoff now or saving it for dinner.
"Thanks, but I'm okay," I tell Isaac as I slide the cookie back across the table one last time, but I can already feel my resolve weakening. I haven't had chocolate in such a long time and it's so tempting compared to this awful crap on my plate.
He picks up the unclaimed cookie, drops it on my tray and then sits back with a smug grin on his face.
"Cookie's all yours," he says. "No givebacks."
He must be planning something. I'm certain that he's only pretending to like me... but if it's an act, he's putting a hell of a lot of effort into it.
I stubbornly ignore the cookie and instead poke at my floppy, unappetizing stroganoff. I’m not going to let him trick me so easily. I'm not going to let him hurt me the way everyone else tries—I'm not going to fall for those amazing green eyes or that little half-smile he's making. I'm not going to let the way he makes butterflies flutter around my stomach fool me into trusting him.
My stroganoff defies my efforts to spear it on my fork and taunts me from the plate as I stare angrily down at it. I'm not even in control of my own fucking lunch at this school.
The stroganoff is so unappetizing that it's almost not worth the effort to eat it. I know beggars can't be choosers, but there are times when I really wish we could be. My noodles win the staring contest, and when I back look up at Isaac, he's chewing contentedly on one of his cookies. A stray chocolate chip drops to the table in between us. God, it looks so delicious! I can't believe that I'm seriously considering eating his leftover cookie crumbs after he leaves.
"I didn't poison it if that's what you're wondering," he says, giving me a hurt look. "I was just trying to share my snack, Nina. Relax."
No, I'm not going to relax. Nobody sits with me at lunch. Nobody shares delicious looking, home-baked chocolate chip cookies. Khip width="Most of all, nobody is nice to me here.
Nobody except him. He's been nice to me since the day I arrived.
I suddenly feel guilty, but the guilt quickly gives way to s
uspicion again. I have every right to be wary of him after all the crap I've put up with in this school.
"Why are you doing this?" I blurt out, surprised by my own words. I totally didn’t mean to say that. Can’t I be in control of anything in my life?
He looks at me confused before answering. "Doing what?"
"Being... being nice to me," I answer, lowering my voice. "Nobody else is. They all treat me like I'm some kind of freak."
He rolls his eyes and a fiery anger bursts to life inside me.
"It's true!" I snap at him. "You saw what Sarah did to me in the hall. You heard those jackasses just now. Stupid shit like that happens all the time!"
I can’t believe he’s acting so...so nonchalant about it. How can he possible look that way at me?
Chasing Wishes Page 6